Moth-holes and Memory

I toss a hanger aside and throw a pale blue shirt into the cardboard box. I wore that shirt to a family dinner one night, when we used to do those. Loud, awkward ritual dinners my mom dragged and hounded us all to attend every other Sunday night. That particular dinner had been down on the sand by the quiet water, and I had paired my pale blue shirt with a pale blue skirt that tickled my ankles when I walked. The skirt had twirling patterns of flowers and stars and…

Focus. Back to the closet. 

I reach towards another shirt, this one a deep orange. I haven’t worn it in ages, and there’s a moth-hole on the top of the left sleeve. I can’t remember where I got it. Was it at that one store I used to visit on the corner by that one coffee shop? Oh god, what was the name of that coffee shop? It was cozy something, cozy coffee…?

I’m never going to finish this closet.

I throw the orange shirt into the trash and move on. My eye catches on a shiny skirt tucked underneath a pile of jeans. I wore this at my best friend’s 16th birthday party, I think to myself as I hold it up in the light. I felt like an adult. 

The skirt joins the pale blue shirt in the donations box. I decide to attack the pile of jeans next, eyeballing whether they fit or not. I stop all progress for the next two minutes after I find a receipt in one of the pockets of my old Levi’s. I also don’t remember the random Target trip where I apparently purchased a tube of mascara, a packet of Goldfish, and a small Chapstick, but that seems fair. 

I’ve come to terms with the fact that this particular spring cleaning is going to take ages. I’ve procrastinated it for months, knowing that once I start, I need at least a full 24 hours to finish. It hasn’t been “the right time” since December, and now the once holiday-cleaning has turned into spring cleaning. 

My dad used to compare me to a little dragon, hoarding all of my treasures. Of course, my treasures ranged from actual pieces of art to a public parking receipt from one of my favorite concerts shoved into my box of loved things. My room was always clean, but open the wrong box and an overflow of keychains and rocks and ticket stubs and notes and Polaroids will most likely fill my room. 

But oh my God I’ve unfocused again. 

My next item of scrutiny is a pair of shorts that were always too small for me, but I held on to the hope that if I worked hard enough, my bone structure would shrink enough to shove my hips into the denim holes. They resided at the bottom of my drawer, the tiny pea under all of my mattresses that irked me no matter how hard I tried to sleep on it. Just to make myself feel worse about it, I decide to try them on right here, right now. As predicted, they slide up my legs and stop right before sliding over my hips. I sigh, and finally throw them into the cardboard box. 

Five seconds later, I snatch them out of the box and put them back underneath the rest of my well-fitting shorts. 

Ben walks into my room and takes a long, slow look at the carnage. 

“Love.”

“Yes?”

“Is there anything I can do?”

I tell him I’m okay, and then change my mind and ask if he could grab me a soda. My throat is dry.

He comes back three minutes later with a cold Coke that I thank him for with a smile and a quick kiss on the cheek. He leaves quietly with thoughts hiding behind his eyes that I can’t read quick enough. 

I turned back to my Everest, a small walk-in closet. 

Seconds later, I hear movement behind me as Ben clears a pile of clothes to make a space big enough for him to sit on my bed. I begin to tell him he doesn’t have to help me clean, that I’d prefer to sort and decide for myself when he holds up a finger in response to my opening mouth and points to the book he’s brought. Oh. He’s going to read, not clean. That’s better. 

The clothes in the box double in number. I’ve reached my last stretch of productivity fueled by fresh motivation to sit and read with Ben. 

It’s now dark outside, but if I stop now, I may never start again and then I’ll just live in the pile of clothes that used to resemble my bedroom and I’ll never find that one pair of socks I love to wear with my black leather shoes and that one shirt that still smells like my mom and the grey jacket I stole from my dad because he used to make me feel safe and everything will just collapse and-

“Love.”

“Yes?”

“Can we take a break for tonight?”

I drag my hands through the hair that escaped my ponytail hours ago. “My bed is covered in clothes and my couch is…not big enough and I’ll just be worried about this goddamn room-”

“Love, we can sleep at my house. Come back in the morning. You need sleep.”

I nod a couple times too many. 

He asks if there’s any boxes that can make it to Goodwill and I shake my head. I try to resist the urge to feel like an absolute failure after working a full day and not a single box is full enough to donate yet. There’s no tangible evidence of my work big enough for me to feel accomplished. 

I realize I’ll have to dig through the piles strewn about the room to find sleeping clothes and almost start to cry at the thought. Ben watches my eyes water. 

“I have pajamas you can borrow.”

I nod in thanks, then remember my words. “Thank you.”

He smiles, steps closer, and slings an arm around my shoulders. 

We’re at his house, and he’s handing me a dark green sweatshirt that smells like laundry detergent. I tell him I’m going to steal this sweatshirt because “it’s so comfortable”. I wonder if I’ll find it in a closet a few years from now and remember him.